Analog Sadness

Photo Courtesy: Pinterest

I was scrolling through Reddit to ignore feeling sorry for myself—critiques about Golden Globes fashion, eczema treatment debates, and analyses of pairing Timothée Chalamet and Kylie Jenner together—when I noticed a new post in the Portland, Oregon group: “Where can I go to drink tea, draw, and be sad?”

While it was a rather specific question, the person explained that living with depression has made it hard to venture out into public spaces, but she fortifies herself to do it anyway by finding dim enough corners where she can cry in peace. My heart ached for her. Below her confession, comments from strangers grew into a long thread of support, offering waterproof mascara options and suggestions for cozy spots in the city to sip oolong.

The post brought to mind several observations I’ve gathered in the past weeks. At two separate coffee shops, I’ve seen people sitting by themselves, accompanied by a nice beverage, and they’re concentrating on an entirely analog hobby. Two Saturdays ago, at Bastion on N Mississippi, I glanced over from my spot at the counter and saw a woman tucked in a nook by the window. One massive blue-and-white gingham Stanley tumbler towered over an iced latte on the small table in front of her. She rested her back against the wall while her hands directed two knitting needles to loop around yarn and weave, very slowly, what resembled a colorful square scarf or pot holder.

Her phone wasn’t out in the open, and she didn’t wear headphones, either. It was just her enjoying her knitting, occasionally drinking her latte and water, alone and yet not alone. For the entire hour that Maxwell and I leaned our elbows on the counter, where we chatted and snuck glances at our respective phones, this woman in the corner knitted away at a steady pace, the clinking of her needles swallowed by the gruff burring of the espresso machine. A generous slice of time had been devoted to something that brought her simple pleasure, maybe even comfort. Watching her savor it left an impression on me—her quiet contentment, her refusal to engage with anyone or anything distracting. Staring is rude, I chided myself, but I couldn’t help but be drawn to the way she made me feel more grounded. In fact, I envied her little sanctuary. Creating it seemed so easy for her.

Later on, during a three-hour stint at Upper Left Roasters, I answered emails on my laptop in between bites of avocado toast. Patrons hustled in and out of the place, but two people sat at the same long table as me, the three of us committed to staying awhile. Unlike me, however, the other two did not pull out phones or laptops. One of them laid a sketchbook on the table—the other, an embroidery hoop—and they proceeded to engross themselves in making art.

Neither of them gazed at a technological device at all. Steam from the embroiderer’s pot of tea warmed the side of my face, a welcoming tendril of heat to mask the winter chill permeating the room. I drafted an email, abandoned it, typed some more, then abandoned it again. Not the embroiderer, though. Their needle moved in one fluid line, stitching the ears of an orange tabby cat perched on a bookshelf. At one point, I peeked glances at the person with the drawing pad, where marigold yellow and fuchsia bloomed across the paper he worked on. Soon enough, he began to add bright cobalt blue to its edge. Such gorgeous colors, I marveled.

Suddenly, my deep attachment to my laptop and phone felt awful, rather than normal. These people appeared so relaxed, lost in their digital-free worlds and still opting to be surrounded by other humans. Whether they were sad or happy internally, they chose to process their emotions without a glowing screen, their attention never wavering from their art. Go out and remember how to live, they seemed to say to me. You don’t need Reddit to cope with your anxiety. You don’t need to scroll through someone else’s idyllic day on Instagram when you don’t feel good enough. You don’t need to turn on a TV show to escape from this world’s pain.

Instead, pick up the stamp you engraved with your friend in Taiwan and stamp your books at home in tranquil silence. Open up the 1,000-piece Harry Potter puzzle your brother got you for Christmas five years ago and start sorting through the pieces that capture Harry’s expression of utter surprise. Grab a notebook and draw horses with obscenely fat rumps like you used to as a child.

Doodle with a favorite ballpoint pen, rattle a cocktail shaker to pour virgin margaritas, puppeteer a scene of an outlaw face-off using Rico, your stuffed brown horse, and Donald, your stuffed sloth that came from the Ritter Sport Chocolate Factory. Do literally anything that isn’t digital.

Recently, I’ve found myself agreeing with the Reddit woman and wondering about covert places to dab my eyes. Yet too often, I reach for my phone to forget. And it’s not to say that technology and social media do not help. My Kindle is a pocket-sized library of serotonin and dopamine. Where else can someone ask strangers for the best places to cry in public? But those things will always be there. When a phone dies, it can come back to life. Sitting in a coffee shop, a honey latte next to me as I attempt to sketch a Clydesdale, won’t always be there. For that memory not to die, it needs to develop into a routine. Sadness would become easier to bear.

2026 might be the year that I finally, finally learn how to draw a proper horse.